


Don't Forget That

by sturmfreii



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (Also Lore and Plot focus), (its more interaction focused), (pretty slow buildup for a ship fic.), Action/Adventure, Along with Present Business, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blackwatch Era, Brief cameos from Gabe and Zenyatta, Flashbacks and What Not, Fluff and Humor, Gore / Graphic Violence mentions in chapter 3, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD / Mental Dissociation mention, Past Violence, Pre-Relationship, Reunions, Slow Build, lots of travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2018-12-12 13:55:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11738460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sturmfreii/pseuds/sturmfreii
Summary: Jesse McCree spends the long hours of travel on a journey with himself, the sun, and memories of his brief time with a certain someone in a certain black ops organization.He comes to realize a few things.





	1. It Starts

**Author's Note:**

> Alrighty, listen, mcgenji kinda came into my life and I obviously had to do something about it, so here's the product of that--it may be a little disjointed due to the nature of the work, but I hope I made things clear enough while staying vague.
> 
> I'm still flexing some writing muscles after a year or so disuse, so constructive criticism is highly encouraged and appreciated. Thank you!

“Now, you _know_  you mean more than that to them–to me–!”  

His voice startled into a low laugh; a sharp, jagged cut into the space between them. Another notch in McCree’s chest. “No. They have gotten what they wanted from me.” 

The marksman bristled. “And what’s that?” 

Those bright red eyes looked dead into his soul through the pitch black, piercing but not cruelly so. 

“An excuse.” 

 

* * *

 

Jesse McCree jolts awake. 

Sunlight beams down with no obstruction, a hot, thick blanket over his senses. His hat smells faintly of heated leather and sweat, his legs aching in the space between the hyper train cars. Wearily, he furls them inward, pressing them to his chest as his palms press against burning hot metal, breathing deep. 

When did he doze? He can’t remember, thoughts scrambled with only one dawning realization taking up the space in his head. 

Blackwatch. Not just them he dreamed of, but the figure he was speaking to.  _Genji Shimada_. 

When was the last time he thought about Genji? They had only known each other a few years; a stretch of time where a person gets intimately close to another due to circumstance, only to drift when those circumstances are removed. Never to be seen again. 

Funny, how he’s seen more black clad goons using Blackwatch tactics than he’s encountered any sign of the cyborg. Gone, soundlessly, a letter and an empty room in his wake, not long before the entirety of Overwatch caved in on itself. McCree doesn’t blame him for hitting the eject button when he could, the cowboy not long to follow, yet.. it had come as a surprise to everyone. 

Jesse reaches to pull out a cigarillo, letting the end make home in his teeth before lighting it. 

“I’ll be damned.” he mumbles, pulling the brim of his hat lower over his features. Too much sun, the thing practically blinding him. He sighs, the fumes and the smoothness of the train lulling him back again (all eyes _–don’t doze dumbass, that’s how you get shot, Jesse_ ). “Haven’t thought about you in a while.”

He has a long way to go.

 

* * *

  

He carried himself differently.  

Jesse first saw Overwatch’s pet project in the medical bay, his presence and condition kept well under wraps from the rest of Blackwatch. No one had so much as an idea what the man looked like, except the lucky (perhaps unlucky, Jesse concluded) agent who caught a glimpse of him when he was first brought in. 

“A literal mess.” the agent said while he took a long drink from his canteen. They were on an overnight mission–a small squad, the usual nameless crew, all hunkered down in an abandoned building with a lamp in the middle– “Heard they’re literally rebuilding the guy, like some sort of Frankenstein. I think the thing that killed me wasn’t the fact that he was literally in pieces, but… god, he’s young. Couldn’t be far from you, Jesse.” 

He wasn’t, Jesse found out. Still terrifyingly young to be stitched back together from the brink of death, all black and cream and red bleeding into the calloused and scarred skin of his flesh. Wires (literal wires, who the fuck thought about adding that?) flowed down from the back of his head and neck like flowing locks of hair, a segmented spine curving down a portion of his shoulders. 

He was facing away. Angela’s voice drifted from inside the med bay, though McCree couldn’t tell what she was saying. The human-shaped-figure looked like a haphazardly built model of a man, but with none of the right materials; skin and synthetics and metal all fused together at awkward angles, displeasing to the eye. Thin ankles (were those… actual blades attached to the back?), curving up to larger thighs, the bulk of his torso fleshing out the size of his figure–-he wasn’t tall, Jesse realized-–well-built and sturdy, with black hair managing to poke past a metal lining around his head. 

A walking Frankenstein, yet…

That head turned towards him, Angela’s voice silenced. Jesse only briefly caught those glaring red eyes as he bolted from the doorway. 

 

* * *

 

His legs painfully thank him as he shakes them out, glad he’s made it out of the worst of his journey. Why exactly did he choose summer to move, again? It’s not like he has to come now. It’s not like he’s expected by anyone. 

No security, yet. Jesse keeps his back pressed to the side of the hyper train, surveying the stop in the dwindling light of the day. 

Relatively large train station, voices of passengers reverberating off every surface of the curved metal and glass dome. An overnight train ride will carry him to the next leg of the trip, one he looks forward to with neither fondness nor disgust. Overhead, the speakers call out departures and arrivals in crisp English, the marksman already missing the warm, fast clip of Spanish accompanying it. Who knows how long it will be until he sees all that again?

Before long, he’s hoisting himself back between another set of train cars, the slim bulk of machinery slowly gaining speed until the wind soared past him, the marksman sinking back into the rhythm as the sun dips below the earth.

 

* * *

 

Agent Genji Shimada was a fucking war machine. 

Fast, silent, lethal–exactly what Blackwatch dreamed up for their cleanup crews, the kind of agent that was able to get the job done and do it well; in, out, go have a drink somewhere to wash it all down. 

He excelled at swordsmanship, his blade and his shuriken literal and metaphorical extensions of his body. His aim was unerring, his skills easily carried over to firearms, covert op training, all basic black ops requirements practically fulfilled the moment he stepped through the door. The perfect new soldier. 

Jesse kept his head bowed as he polished peacekeeper, his hands aimless as he watched the walking war machine before him sharpen his shuriken. 

First realization: the shuriken were embedded in Genji’s arm, three thin slots inside an open hatch in his forearm, the top layer slid back. He kept his gaze low as he watched the man slide the weapons back into his arm; the sharp click of the prosthetic shutting cued him to return to his peacekeeper. 

“You are staring.” 

Not quick enough. Jesse rolled his shoulders, lifted his gun to the light as he let out a hum. “Sorry, partner, just took a glance.” 

Silence. Jesse’s impressed he even heard a handful of words from the Shimada, where he came to his second realization; his voice was rough from disuse, adjusting to the vocal processors in his throat, yet… soft, the hint of an accent lining his English. 

“… you want something.” Genji’s voice sat roughly in space between them, challenging. 

“I don’t want nothin’, actually.” McCree drawled, nonchalant, purposefully lifting his gaze from his gun to stare at Genji, 

His third realization: his eyes were dark red, no doubt enhanced by the cybernetics team (just what parts of him did they leave untouched?). Jesse stared into them, only to find the Shimada had torn his gaze away. A silence settled between them as Genji pulled out his spare shuriken to sharpen. Curiosity bubbled within the cowboy. 

“So… you  _actually_  a ninja?” 

Genji’s gaze went right back on him–a flash of annoyance, something Jesse finds remarkable to be able to be conveyed with eighty percent of his face covered up. “I am not one for small talk, Agent McCree.” 

Oh. “Wow, you already know me?” a laugh carried McCree's words.

Genji visibly bristled with agitation. “It is not hard to know you, with that getup.” he retorted, flatly. He took a moment to pause and inspect the edge of the blade of the shuriken. “… you are not _actually_ a cowboy, are you?” 

The cowboy snorted, amused. “Nah. Done a ‘lil ranch handling in my days, can ride a horse real nice, if that counts.” he explained while he fiddled with peacekeeper’s barrel. One spin, two, three, the dial spun with soft clicks against the metal. 

“… I am have received martial arts and stealth training.” Genji muttered as he sharpened the blade between his fingers. “If that counts.” 

McCree looked back at him and grinned. 

 

* * *

 

Here comes the roughest leg.

He presses himself between an industrial sized crate and a hard place, already missing the air whirling past his head. Long hours on the hyper train carried much of the distance easily, though it’s not exactly like he can ride them forever. 

He takes low puffs of air, relaxing his muscles as the hangar door slams shut with a metallic bang, voices resonating outside as his ears continue to ring. It took some scouting to find the carrier, an hour or so lying in wait, the marksmen feeling rather blessed no one had noticed him stumble in his quick dash to board it.

Hot metal and old wood fill his nostrils. 

Maybe the destination is worth the trip, but the cowboy starts to second guess himself the moment he catches the roar of the engine, the space surrounding him vibrating with its intensity. 

(Slowly, Jesse breathed in, the vibrating numbing his fingers and wrists as he gripped the seat.

Eight men total. Reyes across from him, the same familiar faces he couldn’t exactly recall the names of–all dead now, anyway, scattered among the different seats. Genji was to his immediate right. The aircraft carrier momentarily jostled them during takeoff, its joints shook and creaked in the silence.

He really wished he had a cigar.) 

Sadly, the scent would give away his position the moment he lands. It’s not exactly like he has a ticket to be boarding this aircraft carrier anyway. Or a passport. Not exactly like he was planning on leaving the country any time soon, after so many years in company of the familiar.

The aircraft maneuvers to the takeoff ramp, a slow and agonizing ordeal as his ears grow used to the din, his fingers flexing to keep sensation in them. 

(He bowed his head, allowed his thumb to rub over the dark mud-brown lines of a skull against dark skin. Dried blood made his thumb drag unevenly across the surface, the stuff already buried beneath his fingernails. Universal fatigue quieted the men around him, stained gear and armor left untouched as they were left to their own devices. It was going to be a long flight back.)

Around him, the carrier shudders, creaks and groans as it begins to gain speed, the steady thrum of the body settling into Jesse’s core with familiarity. Weightlessness cues him to takeoff, hearing the mechanics of the tires slowly folding into the body of the carrier. His thumb scratches against the outline of the skull once more, feeling the give between smooth metal and the paint.

(Nobody was saying it, but they were all thinking it. 

Jesse finally looked to his right, for the first time since they all wordlessly piled back into the carrier.

Genji was still shaking.)


	2. Some Firsts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse's not a fan of flying solo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't you love it when you get hit with that giant wave of writing motivation that lets you crank out more than a whole chapter of writing in a day or two? God I love those. 
> 
> Anyway, here's Chapter 2--thank you so much for the kudos and the comments I've already received! As stated before, constructive criticism is highly encouraged and appreciated; just lay it on me man.

“Well, all we got is what’s in front of us, ladies, gents and other folks.”  

Jesse lazily rolled a sucker in his mouth, the artificially sweet taste of root beer a weak effort to ease the itch for nicotine. He frowned at the collection of documents that resided on the back-lit conference table, where a particularly large diagram with crisp lines caught his eye. 

To his left, Commander Gabriel Reyes spun an electronic pen between his fingers as he looked over the diagram in his hand.  

“Latest intelligence indicates that the Shimada Clan currently manages several large outposts across the globe, dealing in lucrative arms and drugs. The last several missions over the last few months have been to find and dismantle each of these outposts, and to eventually work our way to dismantling their empire entirely.” Reyes explained, the smooth yet firm edge to his voice filled the room with what Jesse called his classic narration voice, “While most their operations take place at these outposts and overseas, the Shimada family owns an estate in Hanamura, Japan; their main headquarters.” 

An image was projected over the conference table, the three dimensional model of the property flickered briefly. Jesse surveyed it from his seat, lazily lolled the sucker from one side of his mouth to the other. 

 “Here’s what we know of the property. The main entrance is located here. There are high walls around the back of the property with three buildings total on the premises, including the main part of the estate. We’re not sure what’s inside that yet.” Reyes drew a bright red circle onto the tower like structure in the center of the property, followed by a frowny face. “In our current course of action against the Shimada’s, this here is our last mission. Level of security is unknown, but we do know there are both human and omnic guards on the premises. ” 

Jesse knew where this is going. His eyes drifted across the table from himself. 

“Which,” Gabriel sunk into his seat, “Is why we have you here.” 

Genji lifted his eyes from something in his lap to look at Gabriel--then Jesse, the brief moment of eye contact stilled the gunslinger’s fidgets--before they rested on the former.  

“Very well.” Genji muttered, a low and heavy exhaustion weighing down the syllables as he rose from his seat. 

Gabriel slid him the pen, the cyborg leaned into the light of the projection light to grab it. Jesse caught the telltale signs of a long night, the puffiness to his eyes and the unsubtle hint of dark circles beneath enough to raise an eyebrow as he fiddled with the pen.

“I would advise against the main entrance, obviously. An easy access point would be here, down this alley--you can scale a section of wall beside the shops that will let you drop right onto the edge of the property.” Genji placed an ‘X’ over the main gate, while McCree’s eyes followed the smooth curve of the arrow that mapped his route; it took him a moment to realize Genji had changed the color of the pen to neon green, of all things. “Two guards typically survey from the top of the ledge, here. Eight to ten total cycle through the property, and typically cover the space between the main entrance to the main estate.” 

Neon green ‘X’s colored the projection, makeshift guards of unknown origin peppered the empty space. Genji’s voice never raised from a low, nigh exhausted murmur, a rumble with mechanical reverberation. “Guests usually stay in this building beside the family bell that is on display, here. The family lives within the main part of the estate, on different floors.” the words were written over each building, arrows with sharp curves to indicate each one--his handwriting was remarkably neat. “You will not have to go all the way up.” 

Huh. Good to know. 

McCree committed what he could to memory, something he always had a knack for. Enter from the left, navigate all the way to the right, up the tower of the main estate… 

Unaware, he drew his gaze from the projection to the man who was speaking; the unruly mess of black locks that poked haphazardly from his metal visor, the way his voice dipped as he spoke more than McCree ever heard out of him the last several months, fatigue evident in the slow and nigh graceful extension of his human arm, its scarred and calloused surface in plain view as he wrote.

 _...Oh._ Jesse cleared his throat weakly and looked back to find there had been names added to some of the floors. Training area, social spaces, kitchen(s)--something he was surprised to find plural, spare bedrooms and the like. Genji was writing something in Kanji, to a square space he drew in to the far left of the third floor.

Great, like McCree could read that. “What’s in that room?” he asked as he motioned to the floating Kanji.

Genji did not meet his gaze, eyes still locked on the symbols on the projection.

“My brother."

 

* * *

 

The flight feels longer than he remembers. 

Now Jesse really, _really_ wishes he has a cigar, if only to have his mind clear.

Again with Blackwatch. Memories he thought he long since forgot, only to resurface now—as if he never truly left them. He feels the itch for nicotine as strongly as he did at the conference table, his fingers thrumming against the metal floor beneath his him as he attempts to distract himself.

If he closes his eyes long enough, he can still see the smooth curve of the cyborg’s biceps in the artificial light, the heavy press of his weight against the table as he writes onto the projection. A man built out of all the wrong materials, yet beautifully composed of all the right curves to catch the eye.

If he closes his eyes just long enough, he can hear the low thrum of the cyborg’s tired voice drifting in the white noise of the compartment, a soothing touch to his rattled nerves.

“Pheh.” scoffs the marksman, a smile managing to pull up on chapped lips as he lowers the brim of his hat, _Reckon I got myself a bit of a problem_.

He reckons it won’t be leaving him be, either. Not until he sorts it out.

 

* * *

 

His first mission with Agent Genji Shimada was an intel mission.

Simple, straightforward, the hardest thing about it the long hours spent in the early winter cold; easy enough for a new recruit and a veteran with a recovering bullet wound to have handled alone.  His jacket didn’t feel thick enough; the cold still managed to bury its way into his bones as his breath pooled out in great plumes of steam.

They sat on the rooftop of a warehouse, the hard press of un-sanded concrete memorable for days to come in form of the dull ache of his ass whenever he sat down. Genji was not so much rude as he was silent, a figure of mass with that rarely made any noise. He alternated watching the warehouse beside them throughout the night, what McCree was told to be an arms dealing headquarters affiliated with the Shimada Clan.

Their mission debrief was short: gather what any intel they could as to the warehouse, the security, the kinds of people coming and going—whether or not a guard went to take a bathroom break at two in the morning or three. Any intel they could pick up, Reyes wanted; a man insatiable in his hunger to know anything and everything about his targets.

“I ain’t sayin’ he doesn’t know what he’s doin’, he gets the job done better than anyone, but… _sheesh_ , like I _really_ wanna know when a man goes to take a shit, Reyes.” McCree had complained on a whim later on in the night, after several hours of mutual silence and occasional chatter on Jesse’s part, “I mean, does he really plan to launch an attack while the poor guy’s just tryin’ to empty his bowels?”

Beside him, Genji slouched his frame against his knees, arms wrapped around his legs as he surveyed the warehouse—he did not need the binoculars with his eye enhancements. “It _is_ a weak point.” He pointed out, his voice a sudden loudness in the dark.

Jesse lowered his binoculars—he hadn’t expected to hear a response from the cyborg.  “Yeah, but isn’t that such a bad way to go? Killed right before you’re able to relieve yourself?”

Genji’s voice drifted from beside him, lowered. “I can name worse ways.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jesse asked with a laugh, the words spilled before he could stop them, “Name one.”

Genji quieted, his glare enough to make McCree question if he would be leaving the rooftop alive that night. “ _Don’t_.”

“Ahh, sorry.” The cowboy lifted his eyes back to the binoculars in an effort to distance himself from his own mistake, “I didn’t mean ‘ta—“

“It is fine.” Genji interjected, his words still cold before they softened, “I know you did not mean it, I… did not mean to be harsh.”

McCree raised an eyebrow, glanced back towards the man beside him with curiosity. Of all things he expected from Genji, it certainly wasn’t an apology.

The man had not moved his gaze from the warehouse, the small window of his visor just visible enough to see the harsh cuts of scarred tissue against his face. It took McCree a moment to realize that Genji had looked back at him.

“You’re fine, partner.” Jesse managed, his eyes pressed back into the binoculars. Wow, that dull metal wall of the warehouse he’s stared at for five hours suddenly looked _fascinating_. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. I’m glad you ain’t mad at me.”

When he heard Genji speak, he swore he heard a smile in his voice. “Thank you, Agent McCree.”

“You can just call me McCree, y’know. Or Jesse.” The cowboy found his voice after a moment, shifted in his seat to feel less of the numb pressure against his rear, “Like everybody else.”

“… McCree, then.” The cyborg settled on the name rather simply, “Just Genji is fine.”

 

* * *

 

This time, he caves, if only to satisfy the craving for the taste.

A cigar makes its home between his teeth, the marksman gnawing at it to make little grooves to keep it in his mouth. He bites down the temptation to light it, even with his nerves as unsettled as they were.

Instead, he opts to flick the lighter on to check the time, holding the flame to the clock face. Three in the morning.  

“Well, you chose a good time to bother me, Genji.” McCree mutters to himself, the extinguished flame of the lighter immediately dowsing him in pure darkness. Around him, the carrier glides smoothly through the air, the weightlessness leaving an empty pit in his stomach. He _really_ wants to get off.

He finds himself wanting a lot of things lately. A bottle of whisky, a high quality (lit) cigar, the longest and hottest shower of his life; no Genji Shimada questionably lurking around in his thoughts, tying each attempt at a coherent string of thought into a bundle of useless knots in his head.

He wouldn’t mind Genji’s presence if it weren’t for the extra luggage. Blackwatch, Commander Reyes (god be with him, wherever the body is), comrades he knew and lost over some of the fullest years of his life, even with all the dirty work.

Genji himself is an extra piece of luggage. The warmth of his laugh, the nostalgia for the long nights sharing rooftops and war torn spaces with him, the way he moved and spoke and carried himself completely _unlike_ a monster, but a person. A person Jesse still wishes he could see, the memory of an empty dorm with nothing but a note in its wake tightening his chest.

“Let a man sleep for once, will ya?” Jesse says to no one in particular, folding his serape to create a make shift pillow. He lays himself back behind the crates, his entire body sinking into the metal floor beneath. The low vibrations of the aircraft loosens the tension in his chest as he takes slow breaths, keeping his memories at bay. “Just gimme a few hours, darlin’…”

A long night is the last thing he wants right now.

* * *

 

 

“McCree?”

Jesse felt himself tremble while two sturdy hands hold onto his wrists—one prosthetic, one flesh, the grip on both of them tight. He tried to breathe, only to find he couldn’t, the air caught in his throat as silent tears streamed down his cheeks. What happened? It came so suddenly, he was just in the practice range; he was loading peacekeeper, trying to avoid the nightmares and the voices, when..? He couldn’t think straight. It caught up to him, didn’t it?

“McCree, breathe…” Genji tried again, softly, and the marksman shuddered in his grip with a broken gasp, wet and loud. Jesse felt like he was crumbling in the man’s arms. “You are here. Focus.”

He tried. Jesse tried to focus, the effort slowly drew him back. He clenched his fists, squeezed them as tightly as he could—a sensation to focus on, something Reyes taught him. Genji took the hint, and squeezed his wrists tightly.

“Do you feel that?” he asked, his grip never waned “Focus on that.”

Jesse nodded, was still gasping for air. He felt his knees give out beneath him, the soft gasp of exclamation from the cyborg as he was eased to the ground. Genji never let go.

“Easy…” Genji’s voice had lowered to a soft murmur, his eyes softer as his expression relaxed.

It took McCree longer than he would’ve liked, but he breathed, slowly let the sensation of the world and Genji’s grip pull him back. Before long, he sat on his knees, breathed evenly as he stared at the ground. “What…” he started, hoarse, noticed the stark concern in the other’s eyes. It left a notch against his chest as it dawned on him.  

The practice range. Peacekeeper, heavy in his hands, the nightmares that kept him up chasing him down in his sleepless mind—Genji’s voice, the gunfire (his own, not his dreams—he realized the moment he spots the deep graze of a bullet wound against Genji’s prosthetic shoulder.) Then the moment now.

“Oh… _shit_ , Genji, I’m sorry. Just—just let me—“

Genji tensed, his grip on Jesse’s wrists gone as he took one step back, then two. He looked over the marksman, his eyes scanned over him carefully before he bolted back into base, gone.

Jesse sat there in silence, held his wrists and squeezed.  


	3. Something More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse doesn't quite think everything through, in the end; his mind is very much elsewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: This is the chapter most of the warnings are posted for! There are some graphic depictions of violence, extreme angst (with a bit of comfort in there), very dark / mature themes.**
> 
> I tried to condense the heaviest stuff together in one chapter for the reader's sake. There's a lot of action and a lot going on, so I hope you all enjoy the rough ride and don't die at the end (there's a note at the end of this). 
> 
> As always, constructive criticism and/or comments are highly encouraged and welcomed. Thank you for the support!

He wakes to his cheeks wet and his wrists aching.

Loneliness washes over Jesse as he props himself up. He flicks the lighter to find its past dawn; the absolute last thing he feels is well rested. He chews down on the same cigar from the night before as he pulls out something to stomach—some hard tack, he’ll have to restock somewhere once he lands—and trades items in his mouth.

Genji had helped him that night. Actually took a bullet for it, the events that Jesse failed to remember glaringly obvious in retrospect; that wasn’t the first time Jesse mixed up the flashbacks with reality, believed his bullets were hitting one thing when they actually hit something else. He always came back to peacekeeper’s barrel empty, his hands shaking and alone with the damage.

McCree momentarily kicks himself for being so exposed—so careless in his effort to hide that moment of weakness. And of _all_ people to see, it had to be Genji.

Yet… he never asked. Never brought it up to anyone, or so Jesse hopes. He was there, a solid force to bring Jesse back, only to run the moment he was truly noticed.

He feels no closer to sorting any of this out than he did before.

“You’re something else, y’know that?” McCree mutters, “Helpin’ a man out of his own stupor and runnin’ for the hills.”

Around him, the carrier shudders, the noise around him beginning to increase as the machine seems to come back to life in the air, making its slow descent back towards ground. Jesse finishes the last of his hard tack (it isn’t much) and presses himself back against the crates, pulling his serape back over his body.

It’s time to land.

 

* * *

 

 

Genji had not lied; there was a small section of stone wall down a small alleyway they scaled to enter the property, right onto an unchiseled stone against the ledge. Commander Reyes was in the lead, Jesse and the remaining six men close behind for a total of eight. Two guards, just as Genji reported, observed the property from the ledge above them, followed their rounds for the night with ease. It had been easy to take those two; the vivid neon colored X’s from the projecting took human shape as Blackwatch did their usual thankless business.

Before long, the bodies of twelve beings total—human and omnic, another well predicted detail—were pulled deep into the shadows, their remains to be disposed of once the mission was completed.  Jesse was used to the work, the killing usually the fastest part of the missions even when a fight was put up. The clean-up was a different story. Genji remained silent alongside the others.

 _So far, so good_.

They regrouped.

McCree scanned over the faces he knew for a mental head count alongside his Commander. He reached seven men when he noticed the same error Commander Reyes did. He reached seven when the alarms had begun to blare, accompanied by distant screams in the distance. He reached seven when he already broke into a dead sprint across the grounds, Reyes’ voice just raised in question.

“—Where the _fuck_ is Shimad—oh, _great_.”

 

* * *

 

Reyes would have kicked his ass for not being five steps ahead.

How exactly could he be, with only so much sleep and so much food in his stomach? McCree realizes his mistake the moment he hears the door of the carrier unhinge. Sunlight fills the compartment in seconds, the cowboy pressing himself into the shadows of the crates. Footsteps echo throughout the space, the fast clip of Spanish flooding the room; Jesse listens. Apparently the boxes he just slept with were full of car parts. _Every detail matters, somehow_.

He waits for an opening, breathes slowly through his mouth to silence the sound. As each box is lifted, he risks a noise, checking peacekeeper’s barrel in the brief seconds of sound. He still has six bullets, with three rounds extra. Enough to get him out of here if he has to exit with a bang.

A box above his head moves. He really is getting rusty. Why did he pick a spot this close to the door?

“Hey, wait—“ someone’s Spanish breaks the silence, Jesse gripping peacekeeper tightly in his hand as he stands.  

Looks like he’s exiting with a bang.

He levels the gun and fires, the scream of the man with a bullet in his foot ricocheting through the carrier as McCree leaps over the boxes, bolting out.

More voices raise around him, startled workers freezing in their tracks as they see him fly past them, the bright red flash of his serape and metal flash of his prosthetic an afterimage in the bright light. Five bullets—then three, the cowboy firing two more bullets into the men ahead of him, having just begun to rush forward. They collapse to the ground with shouts of pain and shock as he flies past.

He runs.

 

* * *

 

He ran as fast as he could.

Jesse had smelled plenty of gore in his life time, the scent had to come second nature to him in a gang like Deadlock; as familiar to him as the scent of a childhood home cooked meal, a vivid memory of his time with the wrong kind of people. Here, the scent was so poignant he could taste it in his mouth with each gulping breath.

He had to admit, he thought he finally understood what Genji was.

It was something else entirely to see it like this.

The first bodies he bound over were nigh split in two, their hips a mere sliver of connection left between two very clearly divided hemispheres of the body. Left shoulder, a clean cut across the torso to stop at the right hip, their blood already soaked and oozed across the mats beneath his feet.

And Jesse thought he knew gore. What a joke.

He heard screams as he bound up the first flight of stairs, an ugly and high pitched screech immediately and violently silenced amidst the never ending blare of the alarm. More of them echoed between the floors with rattled gunfire, the sound distant yet only grew terrifyingly closer with each step.

McCree crossed the length of the next floor; more bodies, the sliding doors left ajar to bring them into focus; old, greying men—clan elders, Jesse realized. A few of them were actually cut clean in half. He didn’t dwell on that realization for long. His feet slid out from under him.

“ _Shit_ —!” Jesse caught himself with his hands, the loud slam of his body against the wood steps left unnoticed by the chaos still above him. He pulled himself to his knees, then his feet, refused to acknowledge the still dripping stream of blood coating the steps as he scaled them. His uniform was splattered with it.

More gore, more bodies, so many faces permanently locked into horrified screams with a terrifying realization reflected in their eyes—that not only where they about to die, but they were about to die by the hands of a man they thought was long dead.  He briefly imagined a supposed-to-be-dead Gabriel Reyes pressing a shotgun to his head, revenge in his eyes. He felt chilled to the core.

The marksman reached the third floor.

The neon green squares of the map in his mind led him down a long stretch of hallway, where a man stood alone down the carnage filled hall; his entire frame trembled as he reloaded a pistol in his hand. Their eyes met. He was fast, but Jesse was faster, peacekeeper already leveled and fired before the man could so much as lift his gun. No more screams, no more gunfire—just the sound of his own labored breath and the alarm. He stepped over the body with little thought.

The door was slid shut, but Jesse could make out the bloodied hand mark against the side of the frame. He reached to open it, when a scream broke the white noise around him.

It shook him to the core, a broken and pained sound. It was broken by a loud sob, heavy and wet, only to be accompanied by a shaken breath, each cry rugged and uneven before it looped all over again.

Jesse knew who it was without opening the door.

Slowly, he breathed. His hands felt unsteady as he holstered peacekeeper. He closed his eyes, took low, uneven breaths as something within him tore, a deep notch carved into his chest.

Jesse McCree pressed his back against the wall and trembled.

 

* * *

 

_Don’t stop._

Jesse reaches the main cargo center by some god damn miracle.

He skids to a stop, chest heaving. He spares a few precious seconds to gain his bearings.  

More cargo—hundreds, practically thousands of crates covering the span of what looks to be a full scale warehouse. Jesse heads down the nearest aisle, the first of the indoor workers looking up from their clip boards and fork lifts in surprise. He dives past them with little thought, mentally tuning their voices out.

He needs to get out of here, and get a ride, _fast_.

Jesse halts, his head turning about himself. More aisles, more crates—god, has he entered crate hell? His pulse thuds loudly in his ears as he takes a left. He sees an entrance illuminated by sunlight, several khaki-clad workers raising their heads to his ascent.

“Sorry, fellas!” McCree counts off his last three bullets, each one managing to hit their target; the first man’s thigh, the second’s forearm, the third one just managing to scrape the man’s ankle. Jesse leaps over the third man’s body, spurs jingling as he breaks back into the sunlight of day.

A parking lot, with long semi-trucks and an assortment of regular vehicles catching Jesse’s eye. Oh, _this_ he can work with.

He chooses a generic looking silver van to his right. Jesse reloads peacekeeper as he runs towards it, sliding in the new round of bullets and firing it into the window. It cracks with a bang, the cowboy using his prosthetic and his weight to shatter the rest of it open. He unlocks the door, throws it open and immediately ducks to the underside of the driver’s seat.

 _You never really do leave Deadlock,_ a voice taunts as he works, sneering, _You’ll always be one of us, Jesse. Even if you think you’re a goody little two shoes and follow that know-it-all prick like a lost pup._

“Aw, go fuck yourself.” Jesse mutters, the heavy thrum of the van engine kicking on as he presses the two color coded wires in his hands together, “I’d rather pick Blackwatch than your lot.”

He pulls himself out from beneath the wheel, dragging his body into the driver’s seat as the first of the airport security flooding from the main gates. The thick scent of cheap tobacco and human sweat fills his head. He changes gears, turns the wheel as far to the right as it will go while his foot hits the gas.

The van tears across a wide patch of grass, tires screeching as Jesse pulls out onto an open highway road outside the property. Again, he veers right, soaring down the long stretch of pavement. The airport becomes a nonexistent mark in minutes.

Jesse sinks into the driver’s seat and sighs. “This _really_ better be worth it."

 

* * *

 

There was hair on the floor.

Big fat wads of it littered the floor near the window, a white ribbon bundling a large clump of it together beside a disheveled bed. Clothes were scattered across the tatami, a wardrobe left ajar. Jesse knew there would be no body the moment he had opened the door. Hanzo Shimada—the Head of the Shimada Clan—was gone.

In the center of the room, Genji had knelt amongst the clothes, the cream, black and red curve of his spine visible in the pale white light of the hall. Every inch of him was dripping blood, the cables that extended from the back of his head to the metal curve of his face plate. He was trembling, his frame curled around his bloodied sword.

Jesse felt something ache in his chest break.

“Genji.”

Genji didn’t move. Jesse hated the way his voice broke as he spoke.

“… Genji, we—we have to go.”

Nothing.

He stepped into the threshold of the room, carefully avoided the strewn clothes and clumps of hair (Hanzo’s clumps of hair, Jesse realized, he must’ve cut them before going—where?) as he made his way to Genji’s side.

“He’s not here.” Jesse murmured, lowered himself to balance on his heels before the male, “We’ll just have to keep searchin’, just… c’mon.”

The blade moved first. In a blurred fury of motion, Genji seemed to come alive, his blade raised and his body suddenly lunged forward. McCree ducked, by some miracle avoided the blade being swung overhead; his hand had already gripped peacekeeper.

“Genji—Genji, wait!” his voice was lost, the air knocked out of his lungs as Genji slammed into him. His hands found the cyborg’s arms, his feet skidded against the ground as he was pushed—and he pushed back, just as hard. They struggled, pushed and shoved and scraped against one another. Jesse found his voice again. “Genji, _wait_ it’s—!”

An angry yell from Genji silenced him, the sound pained and wretched; those bright red hues of Genji’s were wild and crazed in the darkness. Jesse stumbled, immediately overwhelmed by Genji’s strength as it barred down on him. His back hit the wall, the air knocked out of his lungs. He was fast, but wasn’t fast enough, peacekeeper aimed sky high in his hand.

Genji was in front of him, the blood soaked blade raised, was coming at him with no hesitation. Jesse raised the gun and _screamed_ —

“ _GENJI!_ ”

The blade stopped at his neck. Against his throat was the edge of the sword, pressed against his pulse as it pounded, each beat rattled his ribs and echoed in his head. Genji’s body was pressed against him, pinned Jesse to the wall despite the several inches difference between them. Peacekeeper was pressed against the cyborg’s jawline, Jesse’s finger still resting on the trigger. _Not fast enough_.

Genji moved first.  

“…. McCree—” Genji’s voice broke. The blade dropped from his hand and clattered to the floor. “I-I—”

“I know.”

“I could’ve—”

“I know...”

“I _almost_ —”

“Just— _stop_.”

Genji trembled, silent. Jesse looked at him.

For the first time since they met, he did not see Agent Genji Shimada, the latest Overwatch ‘project’. He did not see Genji Shimada, the wronged son of a criminal empire that was on the verge of collapse, helping Blackwatch plot his own family’s demise. He saw a man named Genji, who was lost, broken and hopeless; a man who felt he had nothing left. And this was his chance for closure.

Jesse stepped forward, bridged the gap between them, and hugged him.

He hugged him so much as he enveloped him, his arms tightly wrapped around the cyborg’s torso to press him against his chest. Genji went still in his arms.

“I know.” Jesse breathed,  and squeezed the man in his arms. In that moment, Genji was nothing more than that—a man.

Slowly, a pair of arms wrapped around McCree’s waist. He relaxed, sunk into the warmth of the other as much as Genji sunk into him.

“I’m sorry.” Genji started, weak.

“Don’t be.” The cowboy murmured.

“I could’ve killed you.” He tried again.

“But ya didn’t.”

“ _Jesse_.”

McCree snorted, unconsciously buried his face down into the other male’s hair. Genji made no protest, his face still hidden against Jesse’s shoulder.

They didn’t move for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very quietly provides some blankets, tissues and hot tea for anybody that needs to recover from any of that.


	4. The Unspoken Moments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse takes some long overdue time sort some things out. 
> 
> He figures it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could say I have a definitive updating schedule for this fic, but college is currently staring me dead in the face with all the work I have to get one biweekly. I also have the rest of this planned out--sounds like I got my life together huh?
> 
> Here's Chapter 4. Constructive Criticism is always welcome.

Jesse keeps moving.

At first, he moves out of a necessity to cover distance, to lengthen the gap between him and the now discombobulated cargo airport.

He drives through as much of the day as he can, great hills emerging in the landscape as he directs the van through smaller country back roads. All stops are kept to a minimum, to small rural towns with for just the necessities—a few day’s rations, a water bottle, a new pack of cigars (Jesse can’t help but moan the moment he lights the first cigar out of the package). He silently blesses the modern age with its simplicity of transferable, convertible credit.  

Then he drives into the night.

It’s far more beautiful here than he remembers. He only recalls being stationed in Spain a handful of times—his memories are polluted with Reyes’ laughter and grand persona, the shared language between them as it dripped off their tongues late into the night, covering anything and everything. The little moments.

As the moon rises higher into the sky, he finds he’s less trying to cover the distance so much as he’s trying to outrun his own thoughts.

The Shimada Clan—the bodies strewn on the floor, their pieces left in silence with no allowance for a quick death. Genji, kneeling in his brother’s bedroom, sobbing. The black clumps of hair on the floor. Genji’s blade raised high above his head, ready to strike him down with no hesitation. The hug.

The hug.

He pinches his arm. _Get it off your mind_.

Every instance he stops is another instance to think, to delve back into a past he struggles to bring to rights. Each memory opens up another can of worms, leading further down a rabbit hole he can’t see an end to.

Genji Shimada is beginning to haunt him. In ways Jesse hates to admit.

The hug; the tight press of the male’s body against his chest, the eventual squeeze of Genji’s arms around his own body. They never spoke of that again, either—those brief, fleeting moments of intimacy, never longer than a minute or two. Yet, hey were _there_. And they _meant_ something. Jesse just can’t exactly figure out what they mean to _him_. Not yet.

Their relationship had been on a much finer line than Jesse had dared to admit back then.

Yet, he has to wonder… where would it be now, if they hadn’t separated?

“Augh.” Jesse groans, his lighter stuttering as he flicks the wheel.

A flame finally comes to life, the marksman holding it to his cigar to relight it. It flickers, and he breathes in the smoke deeply, counts the seconds it fills his lungs and seeps more nicotine into his system. _You know, smoking is bad for your health_. Angela’s voice chides. He doesn’t listen.

The incessant sound of forest life buzzes in Jesse’s head, white noise in the back of his thoughts. He sits outside the van, parked off to the side of a road deep in the middle of a forest—the lush greenery of a national park, younger than some of its ancient brothers and sisters peppered across the country. The signs were newer, yet the road was far more engrained in the trees than others. A cover, until he gets rid of the van.  

His thoughts (incessantly) drift back to Genji.

The cyborg was a few inches shorter than him—his hair was still an unruly mess, but it smelled human; all sweat and skin and human. He didn’t feel awkward in Jesse’s arms at all, the mismatched parts of Genji’s body indistinguishable from one another. He was a man who was broken, and only that.

… Was hugging him the right thing to do, then?

Jesse closes his eyes, releasing the plumes of smoke from his lungs with a sigh.

He can’t make up his mind.  

 

* * *

 

“What is Deadlock?”

Jesse froze midst reloading Peacekeeper, the bullets still in his hand as he looked up at the cyborg beside him. Genji did not lift his gaze from his practice bot across the range, now pierced through the chest with his shuriken.  

“Where’d you hear ‘bout that?” the cowboy tight-roped between suspicion and surprise; it wasn’t like Genji to ask questions, let alone to ask _personal_ questions about other people. He didn’t have to wait out an answer.

“Commander Reyes mentioned it.” Genji didn’t miss a beat as he crossed the distance between him and the hovering practice bot. He pulled each of the shuriken out of the bot’s chest, each one neatly slotted between his prosthetic’s fingers, “He said you used to be a member of a group called Deadlock, before you were recruited to Blackwatch.”

_Did he, now_. McCree wondered what else his Commander let slip to Genji. None of it was exactly hidden, yet it wasn’t exactly a great conversation piece, was it?

“I was.” Jesse settled on the response and snapped peacekeeper’s barrel back into place, “Ain’t exactly easy to avoid joinin’ their lot when they’re the only means getting’ by; both the way out of poverty and the reason for it.”

And that was the truth. As much of it as he cared to recite, anyway. He leveled peacekeeper, stared down the length of the pistol at his practice bot’s metaphorical heart.

Beside him, Genji returned to his side with a slowed pace. “It was not your choice, then.” He remarked, his stance widened as he prepared his move to strike.

“Oh, it was my choice, trust me.” Jesse made no effort to hide the fact, an amused smirk pulled on his lips, “I was seventeen. Saw they had a recruitment flier and figured, hey, what do I got to lose, when I barely got a square meal a day in? Got nothin’ else goin’ for me, nobody to go back to, really. So I went.”

_Bang_. The practice bot shook and hovered back, a bullet hole in its chest. Right over the heart. Jesse clicked the next bullet into place with a hum.

Genji was not so relaxed. “I did not realize.” He said stiffly, and threw his shuriken again. They stuck the practice bot’s head with rattling force. The machine gave a protestant beep. “You are very open about it.”

“Got no reason to cover it up in Blackwach, when half of ‘em know it anyway. We ain’t all got good origins, Genji, trust me.” McCree fired again, his bullet now embedded in the bot’s head. It toppled to the floor with a metallic thud. “We ain’t all Overwatch bred and raised.” He removed his hat and felt through his hair. It was getting long again.

“Oh.” Genji’s voice drifted, a breath of surprise.

Jesse paused and glanced over. “Hm?” he looked over himself, the familiar brown ink of the skull on his arm in sight. “Ah—yeah, guess this mighta answered your question faster.” The cowboy joked, and extended his forearm to show the design to the younger.

Genji paused and stepped closer, and keenly examined the tattoo. A skull with an eyepatch, a chained together on all four corners with a key lock beneath the skull; ‘Deadlock Rebels’ read the old timey type-font, the words sandwiching the skull and chains with eagle wings on either side—established in 1976.

“Gave me this when I joined them.” Jesse smiled, “A lot more stereotypical than my get up, huh?”

The cyborg looked up at him, genuine concern in his eyes. “Did it hurt?” he asked.

“Mm, sorta. I don’t exactly have the fondest memories from then, but…” Jesse glanced to his arm, the skull a silent reminder against his skin. Usually, it remained quiet; some nights it would not shut up, the voices of Deadlock unable to escape Jesse’s head. “It’s just another part ‘o me, now. Don’t really matter much in the present.”

An interesting statement, one even McCree was aware of the double meaning. Yet, how much time should be given in allowance to a man who had lost most of his body, by the hands of his own brother?

“I also had a tattoo.”

Jesse was pulled from his thoughts. “I—wait, ya did?” he asked. His gaze roamed the cyborg’s body in search of evidence (there was none, obviously), and imagined all sorts of different designs. Some Japanese Kanji, an animal… a family crest, perhaps?

The cyborg raised his left leg, perfectly balanced on his right, as he spoke. “Yes, on my leg. From here—” He tapped the bottom of his ankle, and motioned up the length of his leg to his thigh. “To here. It… was a dragon.” Genji admitted, his voice lowered.

A dragon, huh. Oddly enough… to Jesse, the image fit. A great, roaring dragon that soared through the sky, powerful and untouchable… how had he not thought of Genji like that before?

“Wow.” Jesse imagined the great coiling length of a dragon wrapped around Genji’s leg, its jaws wide and fire spewing from it.

“Yes. My family… has an ancient tradition, that only our family can control the great dragons. My brother and I were given the siblings; the Dragon of the North Wind and the Dragon of the South Wind. Our tattoos connected us to them, before...” Genji drifted, his words left to hang. The air around him had grown heavy.

Jesse, on the other hand… had no fucking _clue_ what to say to that.

“Really.” He said, though he genuinely had no clue what he was saying ‘really’ towards. Was it the fact that Genji just told him, with all seriousness, that dragons existed? And that the Shimada clan _controlled_ dragons? With _tattoos_? “Wow. That… sounds, uh…” Jesse struggled, at a loss for words. He settled on the first thing that came to mind, not at all thinking it through. “…Neat?”

Immediately, Genji spluttered. “ _Neat_?” his voice rose from a splutter to a laugh, a great sudden burst of energy that rushed through the cyborg’s frame. The sound of it was so genuine that Jesse found himself staring at him in silent awe. “Neat, you find it _neat_ —” Genji giggled—actually _giggled_ —as he took a step back from the cowboy. “You are something else, Jesse McCree, to believe what I told you without question.”

Oh, he was something, alright. “H-Hey, you ain’t even given me a chance to process it!” McCree retorted, flustered, “How d’you expect me to just believe you got the magic to control _dragons_?!”

Genji only laughed harder at his words, long and hearty, to which the man was left gasping for air as he came down from it, “I don’t!” he exclaimed between breaths, “I’ll—I’ll prove it to you some day, McCree, I am not crazy—!”

“Yeah, you better, Genji.” Jesse huffed. Genji’s laughter rung inside his head, the cowboy’s chest warm as an amazing rush of lightness surged through him. He wanted to hear that laugh again. “It better not be some real shitty euphemism for your dick, either.” Jesse added, a smile already on his lips.

It did the trick. Genji laughed just as hard as before; his frame rattled with it. This time, Jesse joined him, the marksman lowering his hat to cover his flushed cheeks, his smile so wide his cheeks began to hurt.

He couldn’t get the sound out of his head for days.

 

* * *

 

McCree parks the van in the parking lot. He leaves the keys dangling off of the side view mirror, the cowboy advancing across the hot pavement of the lot. It’d taken a bit of fussing with the road atlas he found crammed in the back seat, but he eventually made his way through the countryside to a hyper train station. According to the map, this station has a line that will him straight over the border.

It only takes him a couple of minutes, ducking and diving between the hyper trains and the security cameras; they were still bulky, an object not so hidden from sight if you knew what you were looking for.

Even in another part of the globe, Jesse feels the same familiarity wash over him from the last five years as he spots the right hyper train, and begins to hoist himself up between the carts.

Before long, everything settles back into the rhythm, the wind rushing past him as the sun beats down on him, his hat pulled over his head as the train soars through the country side.

A few more hours, and he should be there.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, things happened with no real rhyme or reason.

Neither one of them could sleep. It was apparent the moment they met the other’s gaze as they stepped outside. The pale florescent lights of the base illuminated the dark circles beneath their eyes as they walked to an observation balcony, and sat between the poles of the railing.

They didn’t speak. There was no reason to, for each man already knew what plagued their friend. Genji’s eyes were red and puffy, still wet from the tears of his dreams. McCree’s were similar, though lesser; rather, there was a tightness coiled up inside of his chest that left him numb to the core, each breath not quite deep enough in his chest.

They didn’t move. Not for a long time, each agent’s gaze trained on the darkness before them. Their minds were elsewhere. Jesse did not think of it when he found himself leaned against the cyborg’s shoulder. He did not think of it when the cyborg perked up to look at him, and leaned back into him for support. He still did not think of it as they sat pressed against one another, their hands brushed together at the finger tips.

“I… do not know how I feel about you.” Genji broke the silence first. His human fingers drifted dangerously close to Jesse’s. 

Jesse turned his palm over. He watched as Genji took the invitation, and their fingers entwined. “I ain’t so sure either.” He confessed. He thought it was a lack of sleep. He thought it was a strange, roundabout explanation for human comfort. He couldn’t think, really.

“… is this…” The cyborg danced around it; a cautious player in a game neither had fully entered, yet did not wish to back out of.

Jesse was numbed, yet felt… whole, somehow. He did not know what to think. “I don’t mind.” He answered, and sighed, “I—I don’t _know_.” Frustration curbed his voice as he closed his eyes.

“Jesse.” Genji whispered the name, the tight squeeze of his hand in Jesse’s enough to silence his thoughts.

Jesse squeezed the cyborg’s hand back; it was warm, calloused but firm in his grip.

They didn’t move until the sun rose, and then some.

 

* * *

 

Oh. That was it.

_That was it_. Jesse feels it hit him the moment the memory washes through him, his chest warm as the answer finally came to him. It rushes through him like a great wave, drowning him in it as soon as it all seamlessly clicks together in his mind.

How very obvious the signs of a crush looked from the future, in retrospect of the moment. 

How very _oblivious_ he’d been.

‘Thud’ goes the metal behind his head, the broken start of a laugh bubbling out of his lips—a breath, a chuckle that quickly gains traction and speed as whole hearted laughter pours out of Jesse; one of the realest things he’s felt in the last five years. He finds himself gripping his hand, reliving the moment it all nearly clicked together back then, and squeezes them together.

“Of course.” he laughs aloud, cheeks flushed, “Of course it’d be _you_ , Genji.”  


	5. Something to Not Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse remembers some advice he gave. 
> 
> His journey draws to a close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two months later... yikes, certainly didn't plan for that to happen, but it did and it is now in the past. 
> 
> Thank you for all of the comments and kudos during that mini-hiatus of sorts. It really motivated me to keep going with this project and to keep working on it. This is the second to last chapter (if AO3 says otherwise, I swear I've edited like 6 times.), so this project is almost to a close. 
> 
> Once again--constructive criticism is always welcome, and thank you for reading!

It wasn’t always right.

Everything had went quiet, for a while.

Jesse had to wonder if he had made _any_ progress with Genji. Their late night training sessions no longer aligned at quite the right time, all the conversations that accompanied them dwindled and frayed. No longer carried the sustenance they once held.

Jesse felt he was back at square one, after the semi-failed Shimada mission; all his efforts to loosen the cyborg’s lips had essentially been reduced to nothing in a matter of twenty four hours.

So he never pushed it. Not the first week, nor the second. He couldn’t, really—the mission had created an unspoken fissure between them. And McCree was haunted by enough of it to keep his mouth shut.

(The hug; he still felt the heavy, shaking press of Genji’s body against his chest—were they really all that different?)

It wasn’t until the third week that he cracked.

“Did I do somethin’?”

Genji slowed his pace down the hallway, his gaze finally lifted from the floor to look Jesse in the eye. A marginal improvement from the last two weeks.

“How do you mean?”

McCree propped himself against the doorway to his quarters, a frown creased on his features. “Well, I barely see ya, for starters.” He explained, “Finally felt like I was breakin’ through to you, and you shut me out again. Just wonderin’ what I mighta done to cause that, Genji.”

Of all things that escaped the cyborg, it was a scoff. “You act like you care.” Genji remarked.

It felt like the moment had come to a sudden, screeching halt. “Excuse me?” McCree pulled himself from the door frame, back straightened.

“You act like you care.” Genji repeated it just as brutally as the first time, a disinterested weight tangible in each syllable.

Jesse felt he had just been dealt a punch he wasn’t ready for. It had already begun to sting. “And you think I don’t?” he retorted, offended.

“I do not see why you would.” The cyborg’s tone did not waver as he looked back to the floor. Disinterest, or avoidance? “You have nothing to gain from it.”

Nothing to— _what_? Jesse took another step forward to cut the gap between them. “I don’t have to _gain_ somethin’ in order to care about you, Genji.” The fact that he even had to say so made something boil beneath the marksman’s skin.

“What reason _do_ you have then?” Genji turned on his heel to face the cowboy and met his gaze. Exasperation just barely lined his movements—Jesse could see it in the way he tensed, the ever creeping edge to his voice as he spoke. “Why do you bother with something like me, if you do not gain something from it?”

_‘Something like me.’_ Another heavy blow McCree wasn’t ready for, as sudden and as disorienting as the first one. “You ain’t a ‘something’, Genji—” Jesse started, unaware of the way his voice had softened.

Genji did not let him continue. “I did not think you would be this stupid, McCree.” He exclaimed; his shoulders silently shook in laughter, clearly amused as he stepped away.

_You’re as stupid as you look. I couldn’t have picked a better image for you than that bumbling cowboy getup, Jesse McCree. Cuz that’s all you are—just some dumb cowboy with a good eye._

“I’m _not_ stupid.” McCree smothered the voice in his mind, and realized his fists were clenched. His knuckles had turned white.

“Oh?” a sing-song note sounded from the cyborg, “Then you are oblivious.” He took another step away from the man, his back turned as he continued to walk down the hall—

No. Something snapped—a surge of frustration rushed through McCree, and he stepped in pursuit of the cyborg. No, he would _not_ let this be.

“And what exactly am I oblivious too?” Jesse retorted, “Since I seem to be too stupid to see it. Please, _elaborate_.”

Genji stopped, his voice raised as he turned back to the cowboy to stop him dead in his tracks.

“I am not human, McCree! Is that not obvious enough?”

Jesse froze, attempted to protest, but Genji interrupted him once again.

“I have heard what the other agents said about me. That I am a Frankenstein. A monster, the perfect killing machine—they have seen what I have done.” Genji paused, his body drawn tense as the silence lingered. “I do not really _mean_ anything to Overwatch… Commander Reyes, Doctor Ziegler… all of them, I am just their guinea pig.”

Jesse took the pause to raise his voice.

“Now, you _know_  you mean more than that to them–to me–!” 

Genji startled into a low laugh; a sharp, jagged cut into the space between them. Another notch in McCree’s chest. “No. They have gotten what they wanted from me.” 

The marksman bristled. “And what’s that?”

Those bright red eyes look dead into his soul through the pitch black, piercing but not cruelly so.

“An excuse.” 

Any words Jesse held in his throat died out. For he knew he could not truly deny that Genji had been an experiment—an opportunity at the right time and place, the cyberneticists eager to save a life with their newest technology. He could not deny some of Reyes’ intentions—not with the shuriken embedded in Genji’s arm, or the blades at his ankles.

He could not deny it, and it pained him that he couldn’t.

Even so…

“Maybe y’were an excuse.” McCree started off slow, careful, “But that doesn’t change the fact that people in Blackwatch actually care about ya. Cuz we do. Y’mean somethin’ to us, we don’t think you’re some kinda monster. Even if Angela and Reyes somehow did—which I _highly_ doubt—well, I don’t.”

Something about Genji’s stance seemed to soften. “You saw what I did to them on the mission, McCree.” He murmured, “To my ‘family’.”

The Shimada Clan. Bodies strewn across blood-soaked tatami mats. Screams, violently and mercilessly silenced. Genji in the empty room with his blade. His sobs. Jesse knew exactly what he meant.

“I did.” He answered.

“Then you know what I am capable of. That maybe I should not have been brought back.”

Immediately, Jesse reeled. “Alright, _no_.”

“McCree—”

“No, you _listen_ to me a moment.” Jesse interrupted, fueled with frustration, “Bringin’ you back wasn’t a mistake, Genji. You’re…. mad, you were done wrong—I don’t blame you. I know y’didn’t want this. You certainly never asked for it, but savin’ your life _wasn’t_ a mistake.”

Taken by the moment, McCree allowed his words to settle before he continued.

“Your life wasn’t a mistake.” He said again, firmly, “Not everybody thinks you’re a monster. Or a weapon. Y’got people that care about you, and support you, one of ‘em standin’ right here in front of you, Genji. I get it ain’t easy to remember, when that’s all y’feel like you are.”

Wide eyed, the cyborg merely stared at the cowboy, silent.

That was it, then. McCree let out a sigh, his eyes closed as he took his first step past the younger. He had said what was on his mind, now it was Genji’s turn to take it all in.

“Look, just… remember, you aren’t alone, Genji. You’re more than an excuse,  and y’got people here who want to help.” He placed a hand on Genji’s shoulder as he walked past, gently squeezed the flesh there as he spoke, “Don’t forget that.”

 

* * *

 

Don’t forget that.

_Ain’t I doin’ a real nice job rememberin’ it all_.

Above him, the sky begins to shine a shade of orange, marshmallow clouds lazily floating by. It was only a matter of time, now. The border check was laxer than McCree remembered, the moment of tension coming and going far faster than he expected it to. It only took a handful of minutes, before they were soaring across the landscape once again.

He catches the scent of the ocean and breathes it in, the familiar lull of the train signaling they had just about reached the station.

It was time to hike.

 

* * *

 

 

Jesse stood in a barren room, months later, a neatly creased page of white ruled paper unfolded in his hand.

He could no longer stay. He must find his own path, without Overwatch. He sought to come to peace with his new body, his place within the world. He needed to make the journey alone.

He wished Jesse the best. 

“So he left.” Commander Reyes’ voice drifted from the doorway. Jesse did not look up from the note as the man walked in and surveyed the neatly assembled room around them. “I’m not surprised. Kept wondering why he stayed as long as he did. He had no reason to, after what we did.”

_What we did_. Jesse folds the letter and stuffed it inside his back pocket. _Yeah, what_ we _did_.

“Did he say anything?”

“’Beg your pardon?” McCree looked back at his Commander; the emptiness of the room felt heavy.

“I said, did he say anything besides goodbye? ‘Fuck you guys, I’m out of here, you made my life pretty shitty’?” Reyes folded his arms; his gaze lingered where Jesse had pocketed the note.

The note felt wrong in his pocket. Jesse was simultaneously overjoyed and grieved, relieved and equal parts hurt. Genji had finally sought to better himself… but Jesse was left behind.

If it meant he would begin to heal...

“Wished me the best’s all.” The cowboy replied as he stepped passed Reyes, his tone flat, “Not much else to say.”

There wasn’t, really.

There was very little of anything to say by that point. Genji had left for his own reasons, but Jesse knew in part he chose then for a reason. Overwatch had begun to cave in, the weight of its own symbol of glory had begun to crush the foundation. The dark circles beneath Reyes’ eyes, the uncharacteristic obsession over his position—of power, power, _power_. It’d been building up for years, a gradual denouement Jesse got a front row seat to watch.

It should’ve been no surprise when Jesse decided to leave.

“That’s it, then.” Reyes had said, unmoved; for the first time since their conversation had begun his eyes were on McCree.

“I know I ain’t gonna talk you out of it, Reyes. It’s gonna happen, and I’d rather not be in the crossfire. I’ve had enough of the infighting.” Jesse had explained, the weight of peacekeeper an anvil against his thigh. All the bullets, for _what_?

“I—Alright.” Gabriel did not look mad, but… frustrated. A man on the brink, a frustration and a brokenness over years of jealousy on the cusp. Yet, he never budged from it. It took him in a death grip, like he had taken just about everything in his life. “Alright then, Jesse. Go.”

Then that was it.

Jesse took the first plane out of Switzerland that he could to America. He landed somewhere in southern California, and took his first bounty. The news of Reyes’ death felt like an wound he struggled to nurse with disinfectant poured on it. He never drank more whisky in his life.

He was quick to fall into the rhythm of the bounties, the long hyper train rides and the blaring sun of the American south-west a healing balm for the pain. It soothed him, patched him back up little by little; a flow and way of life only the American deserts could offer. He did his best to forget. It worked, for a little while.

McCree kept it up for years, before he first spotted Talon operatives, the very same tactics Jesse had committed to life glaringly obvious the moment he saw them. Then again, a few weeks later—popcorned incidents across the American desert landscape. And he knew he had to do _something_ about that. Justice wasn’t gonna dispense itself.

Then he got the transmission. 

 

* * *

 

 

The road begins to widen.

Already, great parts of the scenery came back to him from various mission—the great rise of the earth towards the sky, the sound of the ocean crashing against the rock face. He remembers the thick blanket of sunshine over the pavement, the smell of saltwater and seaweed filling his nostrils on the hottest of days as he outdoors.

Each step forward is another step closer.

His journey is to a close.

Nervous energy ripples through his system, the marksman quick to spot the steady incline of the road ahead. The forestry gave way to the open landscape of the cliff, the largest of the tucked away buildings looming over McCree. Shadows pool over the pavement he crosses, Jesse unable to stop to fully take in the sight. He only has one thing in his sights.

A metal wall, its length curving and dipping into the forest line on either side of him. A rectangular section that spans the width of the road is made of a metal gate, the rest of the road beyond and the skyline visible just beyond. Beside it rests a blank panel, the monitor above dim.

He’s here.

Jesse pauses before the gate and stares at the monitor.

He’s really _here_.

With a tap of his finger, the monitor flickers to life. He presses his palm to the blank panel below, a florescent blue light skimming over the image. Within seconds, a beep sounds, the gate before him unlocking with a sharp click.

_“But look around!”_

Jesse retracts his hand and stares at the gates. Peacekeeper feels light, suddenly.

_”Someone has to do something!_ We _have to do something!”_

He steps back, and looks to the winding paved road leading to the cliff face. The sun is just settled beneath the cliff’s edge, painting the sky with rich oranges, reds and yellows. Its colors douse the landscape in its warm hues. He’s missed the view.

_“We can make a difference again, the world needs us now, more than ever.”_

Jesse breathes in the thick scent of ocean and closes his eyes, the smile already pulling up on the corners of his lips. Something within him swells, something so strong and so deep inside of him it takes over his whole body with an exhilarating rush of energy. He hasn’t felt it in years.

_“Are you with me?”_ Winston asks, his smile still clear as day in Jesse’s mind, distorted and static filled from the transmission on his old intercom.

“Yeah, I’m with you.” Jesse McCree answers him.

He takes his first step on the Watchpoint and begins to climb.

 


	6. Something Said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree reaches his destination, and finally sets some things in his past to rights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'know, the two month gap between chapters 4 and 5 looks like an absolute joke in comparison to the six month gap between chapter 5 and this chapter. If you want an explanation check out the end notes. 
> 
> Here's the finale: thank you for all of the patience in letting me figuring everything out, the kudos, and the kind words--they mean more than I can possibly express. Some editing might happen in the next 48 hours but I wanted to get this out to you guys after such a long wait. I hope it is worth it.

The com in his pocket immediately vibrates.

“Agent McCree?” Athena’s voice fills McCree’s ear as he slips the device back inside his ear—her usual neutral tone almost sounds incredulous, “Winston was not expecting you.”

McCree is smiling so big the sides of his cheeks begin to hurt. “Yeah? Well, didn’t exactly have the time to get back to him.” That, in part, was true—he hadn’t noticed the new message until three days after he received the transmission. “It’s a bit of a miracle I even got it. You got any idea how deep in the desert I was?”

“It took two days, three hours and forty five minutes to transmit the message, Agent McCree.” Athena explains, the low familiar hum of her voice almost soothing for the gunslinger to hear once again. “That is not what I originally meant.”

“Oh?” McCree draws out the sound as he strolls across the Watchpoint’s major landing pad. Had he not known any better, the place might have looked abandoned, with all the dirt and the dust.

“Winston did not expect you to answer the recall.” Athena clarifies.

_Ah_. The gunslinger shrugs his shoulders, knowing full well Athena was watching him through the base’s numerous security cameras, “Didn’t think I would either.” He mutters.

“In any case, we welcome you back to Overwatch, Agent McCree.”

He steps off of the pathway from the landing pad and into the old air hangar. The air is stale, heavy with lingering dust. Above him, one of the carriers sits partially assembled, dusty yet still indicative of life. Winston must be fixing it.

“Thank ya kindly.” McCree weaves between tarp covered crates, appearing much newer than the aircraft or the rest of the items in the hangar. “Reckon I can talk to Winston and get the introductory stuff outta the way now? I’m _mighty_ tired.”

“Winston would like to meet with you, but there has been an accident in the laboratory that he is fixing.” Athena reports, the slightest hint of—well, something McCree can’t put his finger on—in her voice, “It will be at the least another one to two hours.”

The words release a heavy sigh from the man. “Figures,” he grumbles, “Anybody else on ‘point I can touch in with ‘til he’s ready, then? Or am I welcome to take a nap.” At this point, he is willing to take a nap anywhere he can find.

“Yes.” Athena lets out a soft sound of confirmation through the com, “There are two agents. Make your way to the main entrance and I will have Winston meet with you as soon as he is available. He will assign you a room, and you will be welcome to do as you please from there.”

His own room, with an actual bed in it. How many years has it been since he’s actually slept in a place of his own, not to mention an actual _bed_ of his own?

“Yeah, gotcha. Just cut through the hangar, almost there now.”

Fresh air floods his senses as he exits the hangar, the sharp cuts of sunlight between the rocks momentarily forcing him to squint. A quick turn to his right leads the gunslinger up a staircase, the suns rays pooling down the narrow stretch of stairs upwards before he steps out once again into the open. More tarps, blinding from the reflection of the suns rays, the satellite disk above his head providing a welcome spot of shade to adjust his eyes.

However brief his visits were in the past McCree recognizes it all. He feels the familiarity of Overwatch lingering in the skeleton of the Watchpoint, the memories a warmth akin to the buzz of liquor in his stomach. It won’t exactly be the same, not without… but…

A cigarillo works its way between his jaws in a matter of seconds, warding off the laughter that comes to mind. He pauses beneath the satellite, about to light it and enjoy the sunset when he hears a soft chime.

One chime, then another—a different pitch, lower than the first—then back up again. A melody. Jesse pauses, lowering his lighter as he tries to catch the tune.

He doesn’t recognize it.

A wind chime?

No, it’s too precise to be a wind chime; the notes ring out evenly without help from the wind. He listens, and hears it coming somewhere below him, closer to the cliff face. Single notes, then a wave of them, as if gliding one’s hand across the keys of a piano, before looping itself. Aimless, yet directive.

McCree steps away from the shadow of the satellite disk and into the open, nearing the staircase down the side of the building.

The source of the sound isn’t even remotely what he expects.

It’s an omnic. It hovers (wait, hovers?) several inches from the ground, its legs crisscrossed. The sun gleans off the metal of its arms and chest, the wiring along its spine almost entirely exposed to the elements. Its head remains bowed, a collection of orbs spinning slowly around its figure. Each one rises, then drops, a chime emitting from each one. Ah, so that’s the source—

“You are welcome to sit with me.”

McCree quirks an eyebrow up, biting down on the cigarillo as his hand instinctually settles near his holster. Its voice is far lower than he expects—masculine, then? He goes down the steps, crossing the distance between him and the omnic.

“Didn’t realize Overwatch was takin’ new recruits so soon.”

“They are not.” The omnic replies in the same tone as before, but his head is no longer bowed. He looks up at McCree, watching as the man takes a seat on the ground beside him, “I came along out of interest in helping the cause.”

Already, there’s a cause. McCree chuckles, stretching out his legs as he props himself back on his arms. “Well, congrats partner, you’re breakin’ the law with the rest of us.”

A soft laugh escapes the omnic. “That is of no concern to me.” Jesse catches a glean of metal out of the corner of his eye, and notices the omnic’s hand is extended toward him. “I am Zenyatta.”

Jesse shifts and offers Zenyatta his right hand, no longer settled near the holster at his side. “The name’s McCree.”

“McCree?” Zenyatta perks at the name, the nine blue dots along his forehead array brightening momentarily, “So _you’re_ Jesse McCree?”

Cautious, the gunslinger emits a quiet laugh. “Yessir. Can’t imagine if it’s my wanted poster you’ve seen, or somebody’s already been tellin’ you stories.” Please, for the love of god, may it not be Lena—

Zenyatta gently shakes his head. “No, I have only heard good stories about you from my pupil. He has been hoping to speak with you again for a long time.” Before McCree could ask what he meant, the omnic motions behind himself, the soft lift to his voice almost like a smile. “I’ll let him tell you.”

McCree turns and nearly bites through his cigar.

After an entire week of haunting his dreams and his thoughts, Genji is standing right in front of him. Different, the armor around his body more worn down than the upgrade he’d been given the few weeks before his departure, but… it was still him, visor and all.

McCree is on his feet in a matter of moments, the words fumbling out of his mouth far too quickly, too rushed. “I—is that really— _Genji_ —?”

“McCree.” Genji sounds just as shocked, just as lost as to what on earth he wants to say. Yet, he crosses the distance between them in a matter of moments, his open arms a confusing sight for McCree until he realizes they’re locked around his waist, his feet leaving the ground in a matter of moments.

“Genji!” He grabs his hat, a grin erupting on his lips as he’s momentarily swung through the air, Genji’s grip as tight and as strong has he remembers. In a matter of seconds, he’s back on his feet, Genji’s grip a shadow against his body.

A million words come to mind—a million questions, a handful of words tucked away in his flannel’s breast pocket, yet the only thing that comes from McCree’s mouth is “ _Where_ in the _sam hill_ have you been?”

“Where have _I_ been?” Genji retorts almost immediately, the liveliness of his words catching the gunslinger off guard, “I should be asking _you_ that, McCree. I heard you had left—”

“Yeah, I—I did, but—” Jesse can’t help the laugh bubbling out of him, an arm outstretched in wordless effort to explain the swell building inside of his chest, “Hell, I never thought I’d run into ya ever again—didn’t think I’d _ever_ see ya comin’ back _here_ of all places.”

Something within the cyborg’s figure softens. His figure had changed, the colors and the design, but McCree finds he is still able to read him like a book. “It is because of my master’s aide—” Genji starts.

“And your own volition, my student.” Zenyatta’s voice interrupts the elder with that same lift from before.

“I—yes.” Genji chuckles, his shoulders momentarily lifting into a shrug, “It took a long time, but I… I have found peace in my life with his aide. It is a _very_ long story, but… I found I wished to help others. For now, Overwatch and our paths coincide.”

If any part of McCree had doubted what he’d seen before, those words alone would have cleared it all away. Genji was the same, yet something about him felt more grounded. Solidified. He was less of a shadow among men as he was his own presence, standing firm and tall. McCree wonders for a moment if _he’s_ the shadow in their shared presence, smoke ridden like Reyes’ body as the experiments—

“That’s mighty good to hear, Genji.” Jesse is surprised at the warmth that escapes the words when he says them, muffling the whispers in head.

A tilt of the head indicates Genji caught it, too. “I did not think you would answer the recall, McCree. Not after what Winston told me.”

For a moment, the cowboy’s thoughts swim with the memories, and he finds himself lowering his head.

“I’m mighty curious what he said ‘n all, but I’m still a bit jetlagged. Crossed the globe just to get back into this mess.” The words come out as a tease, Jesse finding a bit of humor in the fact.

Genji doesn’t seem to notice. “I hope it is worth the journey, then.”

_Worth it? Hell, had I known_ you’d _be waitin’ on the other side…_

“I’d reckon I’m already gettin’ somethin’ I’ve wanted out of this.” 

 

* * *

 

 

There were other members that Jesse had actually expected to take up the recall roaming the base.

Reinhardt, for starters—the man was just as massive and as boisterous as he ever was, a warrior through and through. His presence at the Watchpoint felt second nature, though Brigitte following right in line was unexpected. She nearly shook his arm off she gave such a firm handshake.

The same went for Lena, the deep level of friendship woven between Winston and her unbreakable. She says her hellos in a rushed jumble of words, everything speed about her. He feels rushed through their conversation even when she isn’t dashing around.

Fareeha wasted no time football tackling him as soon as she saw him, their voices echoing through the hallway as they laughed and caught up with one another. She was just as strong and powerful a presence as her mother, and the gunslinger feels remarkably at ease knowing Fareeha was on sight.

He sees a few other new and old faces lingering around the base after he checks in with Winston, but he promises he’ll speak with them all soon. After a good nights rest.

Rest doesn’t come so easy.

 

* * *

 

“You are awake.”

Jesse opens his eyes, not having to look to his side as the cyborg settles in beside him on the rocks. Beneath them the waves roll tirelessly against the stone, the air thick with the scent of the ocean and the night.

“You’re sayin’ that like you’re surprised.”

A soft chuckle sounds beside him. “No, I’m not.”

They sit outside, on the helicopter pad away from the rest of the base; their legs dangle over the smooth metal ledge, metal bleeding into earth before being swallowed up by the constant crash of the waves. Above them, the stars are out in abundance, a clear mosaic of the universe laid out before them.

Jesse thinks of the same view of the sky from Switzerland, on the observation deck. He thinks of how raw his eyes had felt from another dream, the numbness of his chest when he tried to breathe in the cold air of the night. He thinks of the warm press of the body beside him leaning back against him.

Then, he said he didn’t know. Jesse reckons for a moment that neither of them really did know—too much baggage between two very different men, a lot that needed to get sorted out first. Time that needed to be spent.

“Y’know,” Genji’s head turns as McCree breaks the long silence between them, his gaze locked on the stars above his head, “I think I know now.”

Genji pauses, his dimmed visor turning back towards the ocean. One breath, two, three. “Know of?” he prompts.

For a moment, a fear seizes the gunslinger’s chest, and he finds it hard to breathe. “I—well, shucks, I said that out loud?” he gives a nervous laugh, looking from the sky only to find Genji’s visor locked back onto him again. Ah, there’s no trying to fool him. “I… well, I think I know how I feel about… some things.” _Smooth._

“Some things.” Genji echoes back, a tinge of amusement in his tone, “Like what?”

‘Some things’ suddenly felt like a grand understatement. Jesse silently kicks himself as he thinks of Switzerland, when their hands were entwined and they leaned on one another and how everything in that moment felt perfectly _normal_. A progression that felt as natural as peacekeeper in his grip.

“You probably don’t remember that one night at the Swiss headquarters, do you?” Jesse asks, “The one we both went out on the observation deck at like—what, four in the morning? ‘N the stars were out like this.” He motions towards the sky with his hand.

Genji stares, the slight tilt of his head akin to bewilderment at the question. “… when I stated I did not know how I felt about you.” He murmurs, “Yes, I remember it.” The smallest pause, before, “You know?”

_Shit._ Jesse smiles, his head dipping down to watch the waves roll beneath his feet. He still feels Genji’s gaze on him. “Yeah.” He answers, “I do.” He breathes in deeply, his hands clenched against the ledge on either side of his legs. _Just say it._ “I… I think it was.”

He doesn’t dare to open his eyes after he says it, the words and their layered meaning enough to keep him locked in place, not until he gets a response. He feels the seconds slip by, adjusting his grip on the ledge when he catches a soft click, and a puff of steam. Against his thoughts, he opens his eyes and looks back.

Instead of a green visor, McCree is met with a warm set of dark pupils looking at him, his hands still raised somewhere behind his jawline, reaching. “I think it was.” Genji says softly, his words cut off with the click of a second piece of metal, “I think it was, too.”

When he retracts his hands, the metal face plate rests between his fingers, the gunslinger momentarily in stunned silence. A smile works its way over Genji’s restructured features, so achingly sweet and kind that Jesse wonders for a moment if he’s dreaming this moment. All these years of speculation as to what lay beneath that mask, and he finds its beyond anything he could’ve imagined. It’s uniquely perfect.

“What about now?” asks Genji, slowly; the sight of his lips moving alongside the words is something new, almost foreign.

A question Jesse has also thought about. He knew how he felt then. He’s finally squared that out in his thoughts, but now… now was when it really mattered. He wasn’t so sure what he would think, held his reservations for a ‘one day, if I find him’  in his future. Jesse had no real reason to think Genji would come back to Overwatch, or that he would find him here. Yet, Jesse had no reason to expect himself in this moment, sitting here… these were all things a Jesse of the past could have never predicted.

Now he knows.

“I love you.” McCree answers.

In the first few seconds, Genji looks so dumbstruck that Jesse bursts into laughter, the gunslinger reaching out to touch him—somewhere, it didn’t matter where—as he moves closer. Genji also reaches out, their hands laced together back like the night on the observation deck, their thighs bumping against each other.  

“And I love you.” Genji says the words back in confirmation, his smile glowing.

It comes naturally, the two leaning into each other as their lips find each other, soft at first. Jesse tightens the grip of their hands as he leans into the kiss, Genji running his thumb over Jesse’s knuckles as he kisses in kind.

They continue to sit outside, filling the air with words and stories until the sun rises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Absolutely sappy endings are my favorite. 
> 
> Now, as far as the half a year neglect on wrapping this project up, for those curious: I hit an all time low, that sweet sweet mix of depression and one of the roughest semesters of my college career that took precedent over all for-fun writing time. It killed my drive, but I am really glad to say that I am slowly building my way back up now that its summer. 
> 
> Stay strong, everyone, and thank you. You certainly helped me stay strong on finishing this.


End file.
